


Same as it Never Was

by AnnabelleVeal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Flirting, First Meetings, Foster Care, Fugitives, Getting Together, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, M/M, Police, Shopping Malls, Single Parent Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelleVeal/pseuds/AnnabelleVeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from five lives Derek and Stiles never lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same as it Never Was

**1.**

The sound of the water is near deafening, four hundred tons rushing through the dam beneath him. He’s about to be cornered, an animal in a trap, and he inches closer to the drop-off as he hears the pounding of footsteps charging through the tunnel towards him.

“Derek!”

The echoing shout reaches him just before U.S. Marshal Stilinski rounds the corner and skids into view. He’s breathing hard and drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping from his eyelashes, from the tip of his nose. The hands holding the gun trained on Derek don’t shake, though, and his gaze is steely.

"Derek, drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.”

His pulse is racing. He whips around to look from the glinting metal of the barrel in front of him to the icy plunge behind him. He doesn’t like his odds either way. Slowly, careful to telegraph his movements, Derek drops the gun he’s holding and kicks it towards Stilinksi.

"Good, that’s really good.” Two more marshals come running around the corner and Stilinksi motions at them to stay back. “Now get down on the ground with your hands on your head.”

This is it, the last chance. Derek feints like he’s dropping to his knees, waits until out of the corner of his eye he sees Stilinksi relax just a fraction, then he’s up in a flash and hurtling towards the end of the tunnel and the churning water below.

“Derek!”

The pounding of his heart rattles his ribs. He can hear blood rushing in his ears and it sounds like the rush of the spillway. He takes a deep breath, steels himself for the drop—

"I know you didn’t do it!”

He freezes, toes hugging the cement edge.

“I know you didn’t kill your sister.”

Slowly, slowly Derek turns to look. The two marshals in the back still have their guns aimed at him, but Stilinski's arms are at his side, his free hand held palm out, like he’s coaxing a spooked horse.

Stilinksi’s creeping towards him—talking again—this time low and soothing, now that he has Derek’s attention, "I believe you. I believe that you’re innocent and that someone else was there the night that Laura died. I want to help you, Derek.”

It’s a bluff. It has to be. Derek stares at him, wild-eyed. He searches Stilinski’s face for some hint that this is all just a ruse to make him give himself up. Stilinski oozes earnestness and compassion, like he’s begging Derek to believe him. And _oh_ , how Derek wants to believe him. He wants so badly to trust—to stop running—but there’s no way to know for sure.

"Please, let me help you.” He's inched his way closer, and when he reaches out and offers his hand, it is close enough to touch.

Derek’s head is swimming. The rushing in his ears intensifies and his breaths come in harsh gasps. He looks at the expression on Stilinski’s face and thinks he might drown either way.

"Please."

He grasps the outstretched hand and lets himself fall.

 

**2.**

"Sweet hot dog Jesus on a stick."

Lydia shoots him the quickest of glares, not wanting to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of them.

"What?" Stiles huffs, "You know we're supposed to keep our conversations 'on brand' when there are customers around." He flicks her on the brim of her brightly striped hat. This time she pauses her staring long enough to give him the full sigh-eyeroll combo. He just grins back at her.

"But seriously, it's practically obscene. I mean, _goddamn_."

Across from the mall food court, Abercrombie & Fitch is holding a store grand opening, complete with a parcel of male models slouching around out front wearing nothing but low-slung board shorts and disinterested scowls.

The scowliest one of them all looks over his shoulder and catches Stiles' slack-jawed ogling. The furrow between his eyebrows deepens and he very slowly flexes every muscle in his perfect, rippling back.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry. With a practiced casualness, the guy stretches his arms overhead and the shorts slip an inch lower to reveal the dimples at the base of his spine and the sharp cut of a hipbone.

It's going to be a very long day.

 

**3.**

“Well Derek, everything looks good as usual. Glad to hear that Boyd likes the new tutor, and Erica and Isaac seem to be adjusting well.”

They’re lingering at the front of the house, Derek standing in the entryway, Stiles a step below, the screen door propped open against his hip.

“You’re doing a great job. Seriously, everyone at Child Services loves you. We all wish we had, like, ten more of you.”

Warmth blooms in Derek’s chest at the words. “Thanks, Stiles.” There’s a long beat of silence as they hold each other’s gaze and a blush threatens to creep up Derek’s neck at the way Stiles is looking at him, so pleased and sincere.

Derek clears his throat and the moment breaks. “Was there something else?”

“Well, actually,” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck and looks down, suddenly awkward, “I do need to tell you that, as of next Monday, I won’t be your caseworker anymore. I’m stepping down and handing you guys over to Sandy. She’s awesome, really, I promise. She’ll take great care of you and I’ve already briefed her on everything so she’s totally up to speed—”

Derek stiffens, pushes off of the door frame to stand at his most imposing with his arms folded tight across his chest. “So you’re just leaving us then?” he says, a bitter, hard edge to his tone. And he’d practically bit his tongue making sure to say ‘us’ and not ' _me.'_ “You’ve finally had enough of Derek Hale's disaster of a family? Decided it was time to cut your losses and run?”

“No! Derek, I—” Stiles throws out an arm and braces it against the door, like he’s afraid Derek’s going to slam it in his face (which, okay, _sure_ , he did kind of consider it). “It’s not like that, I promise."

He takes a deep breath, continues, “I'm removing myself from your case on Monday because on Tuesday I’m going to ask you out to dinner and I want you to be able to give me an honest answer without worrying that either way I’m going to use it as some kind of blackmail to hold over you and the kids.”

Derek blinks, can only come up with, “You’d never blackmail us.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, exasperated and fond. “Yes, well, its nice to know you have that faith in me, but the state ethics board might not feel the same way so I had to do this in the proper order.”

“So,” Derek says, brain finally catching up with the situation, “you’re not leaving.”

“No. In fact, I—” Derek follows the bob of Stiles’ throat as he swallows thickly, “I’d really like to stay. As long as you’ll let me.”

Derek’s chest feels tight, overflowing with a cascade of emotions he can’t even begin to identify let alone give voice to. He settles for sighing and thunking his head against the door. “Tuesday?”

Stiles looks apologetic. “It was the earliest I could get the paperwork processed. Although,” his face breaks into a sly grin, “my caseload is about to get a lot lighter, so I think I could swing lunch instead of dinner.”

Derek smiles back, tries to let everything he’s feeling seep out as he says, wide open and full of possibility, “It’s a date.”

 

**4.**

Stiles slams the door on the U-Haul, shifting the last box to his hip as he snags his duffel bag off the ground and looks up at the house. It’s old and a little run-down, but it’s all his. He is thrumming with excitement and he takes the front steps two at a time. He kicks the front door shut and is checking the locks when—

"You can't stay here. "

Stiles yelps and whips around. He fumbles the box, managing to catch it only to then lose his hold on the duffel. It falls to the floor and lands with a thump. Right in front of a pair of shoes that are floating a few inches above the dusty hardwoods. Stiles’ eyes track upwards as he takes in the slightly translucent appearance of a guy a few years older than him, dressed like the bad-boy neighbor from some sort of Very Special Episode of The Brady Bunch. Who happens to still be floating.

He makes a few embarrassingly squeaky attempts at language before managing, "Um, who and-slash-or _what_ the hell are you?"

Floaty guy gives Stiles a very unimpressed look and says, "I'm a ghost. This is my house."

"Dude, I bought this place. I’m pretty sure I've got a folder full of papers that say it's _my_ house now."

The — fine, sure fuck it, whatever— _ghost_ snorts at that. "So typically human. Thinking that buying something makes it yours."

"Oh- _kay_ , easy there, Pocahontas. You can teach me to paint with all the colors of the wind later, right now let's circle back to this whole you being a ghost business." Stiles sets the box down and holds his hands up, placating, as he tries to inch discreetly towards the kitchen where he knows there's an ancient landline that he prays still works.

Unfortunately, the ghost seems to catch on. He raises his arms and fire shoots up in a circle around Stiles. “This is my family’s home. You don’t belong here!”

Stiles freezes. He can feel the white-hot burn of the flames as they lick at his skin, can taste the acrid hint of smoke at the back of his throat and he thinks, _this is it_. All of a sudden, there’s a loud pop and the fire vanishes. The ghost frowns and raises his arms again. Nothing happens. He snaps his fingers and looks at them, nonplussed, when all that appears is a tiny blue spark and a wisp of smoke.

Stiles lets out the breath he’d been holding. He raises an eyebrow and says, “Are you sure you’re really a ghost? You’re not very good at this.”

The ghost crosses his arms, scowling. “It’s been a long time since someone was stupid enough to try to buy this place, so excuse me for being a little out of practice. I haven’t had to do a serious haunting since the mid 90s.”

It’s so ridiculous, the sight of this shimmery Partridge Family reject reduced to pouting about his lost mojo, that Stiles almost starts to feel bad for the guy. He chokes down a laugh and tries a new tactic.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I'm Stiles, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand. The ghost keeps his arms crossed, looking down at the offered hand with an expression that clearly suggests he thinks Stiles is an idiot.

“Derek,” he says, while Stiles quickly pulls back and tucks his hands into his pockets in a seriously poor approximation of smoothness.

“So Derek," Stiles says, "what happened here to warrant the full Amityville treatment?"

Derek tilts his head, seeming confused by the reference, and Stiles spares a second to wonder how long exactly this guy has been out of the loop.

"There was a fire,” Derek starts slowly, “Suspected arson. Destroyed a lot of the house and killed me and my family." He pauses, like he thinks that's totally sufficient information, but Stiles gives him an incredulous look and he sighs and continues.

"I remember dying, and then it's kind of blank for awhile. Later I came back like this," he gestures to himself, indicating the whole floating translucenty thing, "Everyone else was gone, and I just sort of—stayed."

"Shouldn't you be off hunting down whoever set the fire so you can finally be at peace and go on to your eternal rest or whatever instead of skulking around this place?" Stiles asks.

Derek glares back at him, says, "I like it here just fine, but thanks for your concern,” his voice sarcastic and sharp.

But Stiles sees through the bravado. "I get it," he says, gentler now, because he does. Because he remembers fighting his dad tooth and nail over getting rid of Mom's things years after she'd died, knows how hard you cling to _stuff_ when all that’s left otherwise are memories. “It's your home."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Derek mutters, but he's looking at Stiles differently now, wary and appraising—like he’s a particularly bothersome puzzle piece and Derek wants to figure out where he fits.

Since angry smiting looks like it's probably off the table, at least for a little while, Stiles relaxes and leans against the kitchen doorway. He gives Derek another once-over, really looking at him this time now that the ghost shock has worn off. Even though the 70s fashions aren’t doing him any favors, he’s pretty damn good looking, and Stiles can tell that under all that polyester the guy is stacked. Ghost or no, Stiles has had way worse potential roommates.

“So,” he asks, “what was the plan here before your, uh, _performance issues_?” He didn’t think it was possible for Derek to glower even more, but there it was.

“Most people aren’t stupid enough to stay in a house with an angry spirit. I thought I would manifest myself to you, do the fire trick, maybe levitate some furniture, and that would be it.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Stiles says, “but why'd you wait to get all haunty until after I unpacked?"

"Well—" Derek goes fidgety and shifty-eyed, “I was sort of hoping I would scare you off and you’d leave all your stuff. It gets kind of boring around here sometimes, and your movie collection was...enticing.”

“Dude, no offense, but when did you die, like 1970? Would you even have known how to work the DVD player?”

“It was 1977,” Derek says, huffy, “and the first family that lived here had a few laserdiscs so I’m sure I could have figured it out.”

“You ran a family off for their _laserdiscs_? Now that’s just sad.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Derek says with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair, “I’d only been back for a little while when they moved in and I still didn’t really understand how things worked. I was—it was hard being alone. They had this kid—” He pauses, presses his lips together into a thin, unhappy line. “It just started out with small things: adding onto his drawings, helping put away toys, rewinding videos. But one day I let him see me and we started talking and then, well…” he trails off.

“And then little Timmy tells his parents about his new ghost friend and Mommy and Daddy bolt with the kid, leaving you with the house and their laserdiscs,” Stiles finishes for him.

“Something like that,” Derek says. “I learned pretty quickly that it’s better to get rid of people early on. I’ve had the place mostly to myself ever since.”

“That sounds really lonely.”

Derek shrugs, but it seems more defeated than nonchalant. Up until now, part of Stiles’ brain was still churning away on plots to kick Derek out of the house—an exorcism maybe, or at least some sort of Discovery Channel intervention. Now he just wants to cheer the guy up. A thought strikes him, "Hey, what was the date you died again?"

"April 21, 1977,” Derek answers, looking perplexed

Stiles does a little mental math and comes up with, “Wait, you never got to see Star Wars, did you?"

Derek shakes his head.

“Okay, we'll come back to the question of whose house this is later, right now we have some serious pop culture gaps to fill.” Without thinking, he reaches out for Derek’s arm to pull him towards the living room, only to have his hand pass straight through with a strange tingling sensation.  He spends the next few seconds sweeping his hand through various parts of Derek’s body until Derek disappears in a swirl of grey mist before re-materializing behind Stiles and giving him a very tangible smack to the head.

"Ow! What the hell!” Stiles rubs at his stinging scalp. “Also, how did you do that?"

"If I concentrate,” Derek says, “I can manifest in a corporeal form for limited periods of time."

Stiles’ mind makes a swan dive into the gutter as he immediately parses the implications of that statement and asks, "How limited?"

Derek just rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles towards the couch.

 

When the end credits finish rolling, Stiles reluctantly gets up to turn off the TV. Derek had watched the whole movie in rapt silence, thoroughly engrossed in the action on the screen. Stiles kept catching himself glancing over, and he couldn’t help smiling at Derek’s obvious delight. He ejects the disk and pops it back into the box with a sigh, says. “I guess it's time now for me to vacate the premises, huh? You think you could get your poltergeist on to help me reload the truck?"

The TV flickers back to life. Derek doesn't move from his spot on the couch where he sits, glimmery and semi-solid. "There are two more movies, aren’t there?"

Stiles stares at him, flabbergasted, DVD case dangling forgotten from his fingers, but Derek just continues undeterred, “Shouldn't we watch all three?"

"Technically, if you want to get completionist about it there’s the prequels, too. Everybody rags on them, but I think they have a certain charm if you just ignore a lot of the plot and dialogue and acting choices." He's babbling, he knows, but Derek just raises an amused eyebrow and makes a ‘get on with it' gesture towards the TV.

"You know," Derek says, skimming through the titles in the box of DVDs beside him as Stiles settles back down on the couch, "I’ve never seen the Lord of the Rings either"

Stiles bites down on a grin. “Well, if you watch those you should really see the Hobbit movies, too.”

“It sounds like my cultural education could take quite some time,” Derek says, solemn.

"Then I guess it's good that we’re both sticking around," Stiles replies, his head light and a bubbly warmth spreading through his chest

Beside him, Derek shuts his eyes tightly for a moment, and as the familiar yellow scroll fills the screen, Stiles feels it—the press of a leg against his own, solid and sure.

 

**5.**

Derek the ladybug is going to eat that damn aphid.

Really, he is.

Any day now.

 


End file.
